


Ballad of Suicide

by vvj5 (lost_spook)



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Abuse of poetry, Gen, References to G K Chesterton, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-12
Updated: 2008-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/pseuds/vvj5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six is alone post trial, with no one there to humour him through his mood swings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballad of Suicide

**Author's Note:**

> I read G. K. Chesterton's _A Ballade of Suicide_ and thought it sounded so like Six that this had to be done. I'm not in any way intending to poke fun at a serious subject: Chesterton's poem is more of a celebration hymn to the little things in life. 
> 
> So, do be warned, suicidal thoughts follow, Six-style.

_The gallows in my garden, people say,_  
Is new and neat and adequately tall.  
I tie the noose on in a knowing way  
As one that knots his necktie for a ball 

What was the point of it all? The Doctor heaved another loud sigh as he climbed up a stepladder in the TARDIS’s library, fixing a rope to the end of the tallest bookcase.

The lights were dimmed, leaving him a grey world that matched his mood. He was alone. Peri – alas, poor Peri! – was most likely dead; he wasn’t sure he believed anything he was told these days.

The TARDIS was no help, either. His Ship had broken down six times over the past 30 hours or so and had only chosen to take him to the dullest spots in the universe. He supposed it might be worth noting that he had now visited the largest vehicle park in existence, but it hadn’t been high on his sight-seeing list. She’d followed that up with a swamp planet in the rain, a quarry, a large building site and Burnham-on-Sea in November in the 1990s.

Clearly there was no point to his life. He might as well do this and end his _ennui_ in a protest against his people’s behaviour.

He climbed back down the ladder, realising that he still had to work on the suicide note. After all, they’d know – they’d recall the TARDIS – and they should have something to tell them that it was all their fault, their interference, outright villainy and underhand shenanigans that had driven him to this point of despair.

He had a future he wanted to avoid and another that was waiting to catch up with him sooner or later – and he hated knowing his future. This should be an escape.

“To whom it may concern,” he read aloud, as he wrote on the paper with an ostentatious quill pen, “I refuse to call myself a Gallifreyan or Time Lord any longer, nor do I want to end up becoming a Scrapyard and so I choose to avoid both by terminating my existence.” He wiped away one self-pitying tear, moved by his brief composition and the tragedy of a promising life cut short.

He put it down and set off back up the ladder, scowling. “It is a far, far better thing... Hmm, I’ve used that. Oh, what’s the point in last words when there’s nobody to hear them?”

He’d chosen hanging because, provided no interfering person came and let him down, it should solve the problem of him simply regenerating and spoiling everything. Well, on the other hand becoming a whole new person might be just what he needed. He’d take his chances.

The Doctor took a deep breath.

  
_But just as all the neighbours – on the wall –_  
Are drawing a long breath to shout ‘Hurray!’  
The strangest whim has seized me…   


He put his hand to the noose and then looked at it with dissatisfaction. It was such a crude method with which to shuffle off this mortal coil. Surely he, a Time Lord and all round genius with 900 years of experience behind him, could come up with something a little more inventive and civilised?

He paused there and pondered getting in touch with the Master. After all, the annoying fellow had been desperate to kill him all these years. He’d be sure to oblige.

“No,” he mused. “He’d only gloat and I’m not going to die with some bearded maniac sniggering at me.”

The thought struck him that he was in the library and there would sure to be an answer in one of his books. He clambered back down, called for the TARDIS to brighten the lights and investigated the bookshelves.

“Let’s see – _Famous and Infamous Deaths_. That might have something.” He opened the pages.

  


_H G Wells has found that children play …  
Rationalists are growing rational –_   


“Hmm, no,” he murmured as he read, wincing. “Much too painful. Too undignified.” Then he chuckled at the next page. “Very unfortunate. Still – couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”

He sat on the floor. “What? How do you die by falling on a pencil? A _pencil_?” He separated two stuck pages. “Ah, a pencil-thin _blade_. Well, that makes more sense.”

There was nothing in there, aside from some entertaining stories. He pulled out the next volume and studied it.

Another book fell on his head.

  


_I see a little cloud all pink and grey –  
Perhaps the Rector’s mother will _ not _call –_  


  


It was a cookery book. It occurred to him that perhaps he was being a little hasty, because he had never attempted a Geladen Pie, or making ice-cream from scratch. And look at that…

A book on the next shelf caught his eye. _The Moonstone_. He remembered now that he had read and thoroughly enjoyed it, but he had never quite got round to obtaining a copy of _The Woman in White_. It suddenly seemed most remiss of him. He heard Count Fosco made a splendid villain and one could hardly make much of a comment on a writer if one had only read one of his novels.

And, more importantly, he had no idea where he’d landed the TARDIS. (He hadn't been selfish enough to finish himself off and leave it lying in the space lanes, causing accidents).

  
_I fancy that I heard from Mr Gall_  
That mushrooms could be cooked another way –  
I never read the works of Juvenal –  


  
Naturally, it mattered where he did the deed. One hardly wanted to perish in the middle of another grey, concrete monstrosity like that glorified car park the old girl had dragged him to yesterday.

He flicked the switch and looked up at the scanner. It displayed blue sky, white clouds scudding across it – must be a fresh breeze out there – and the colours of green and brown marked against the horizon of the sea.

Well, that was satisfactory, he decided. Then he hesitated. It did look rather attractive and, after all, it didn’t stop him hanging himself later if he went to have a look…

  
_And through the thick woods one finds a stream astray,_  
So secret that the very sky seems small –  


  
Later, after filling in a large number of forms in the most scenic location he could remember, he returned. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was surprising. That was, after all, the first time he had been arrested for dumping a blue box in a beauty spot officially protected by the government of Morana. But – and this had to be said – it was indeed one of the most beautiful coastlines he’d seen in 900 years. And he'd rather enjoyed filling the forms with an imaginary Moranian existence. It should confuse some bureaucrats in the morning.

“Let’s try somewhere else,” he said, buoyant again. He rubbed his cat badge for luck and activated the dematerialisation circuit.

*

He took the rope noose down from the library with a small smile. 

“After all,” the Doctor said, “I think I will not hang myself today.” 

It reminded him of something and he laughed. “Hmm, must pop back and see old Gilbert again some day.”


End file.
